Beautiful
by Whil-o-whisp
Summary: A south park Gothic holiday story for all you sp yaoi lovers out there. Red GothxCurly Goth, don't like? please don't read.


**_Beautiful_**

_whil-o-whisp_

_Red Gothx Curly Goth_

_Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanza, Happy Winter Solstice, and a happy new year_

_A/n: HEY! Merry Christmas Eve Everyone, I love you all, really. I do. Even you weird ones O.o_

_Disclaimer: I am santa. Ho. Ho. Ho. Beetches._

* * *

It's snowing and the graveyard is blanketed in white, casting the headstones and their names and dates into a beautiful, eerie glow. The sky is a dark purple, because the sun's already set behind the mountains that trap our town. Wind whips around, tearing words from mouths before they can ever be heard, tugging clothes and shoving strollers and shopping carts at the local grocer's over with ease. It'd be beautiful if it weren't so goddamn irritating.

Carolers belt out songs I hate as they stomp around and destroy the pristine, dead, white snow, annoying every unfortunate sad sap in their path. It's freezing, more so than most South Park snowy days and yet everybody is just so goddamn happy. Playing in the snow like it's a new thing, like we don't have snow every fucking day for eleven months of the fucking year.

Commercialist pigs throw out slogans at every corner, 'the perfect gift this holiday' my ass. Its all just a commercialist, conformist nightmare of a holiday. Not like Hanukkah is any better. My Mother has put out the fake menorah, the one with plastic light up candles, because _heaven forbid_ I light a fucking cigarette on it like last year around my 'impressionable' cousins. More like conformist assholes than 'impressionable'. Uncle Clive brought his dorky sons and their fucking dreidles again this year, and they're all singing and dancing and playing around like the world is grand, the economy doesn't suck, and their lives aren't worthless pieces of garbage to stomp underfoot. She even has the gall to force me to share MY room with that twerp and his little brother every year, because they _certainly_ can't sleep on the couch. That's "Daddy Dearest's" favorite sleeping spot when he's drunk off his fucking ass and tired of kicking the crap out of people.

Who the fuck cares about him anyway? How dare she stick those conformist faggots in **my** room? She doesn't do a goddamn thing for me besides pretend she cares, pretend to love me, and then expects me to do her every whim, house her brother's dorky Jewish children in my sanctuary. They better not touch my fucking stuff. They can all go burn in hell. This entire season can burn in hell. It's cold, snowy, annoying, and full of goddamn conformists racing to get their loved ones the perfect gift. I can't stand it. I can't stand any of it!

Even the cemetery isn't safe this time of year. Seems these fuck wads who believe their precious dead 'friends' stick around on this hell hole after they've escaped have found a new hobby: bringing presents for headstones. Like any of these fuckers are sad they left this torture.

"Hey! Get off my father's grave ass wipe!" I get up and I walk away, because arguing with those fuck wads is not worth my time. I walk away, away from all their happy shirts and perky smiles. Away from those goddamn Santa hats and children who still believe in the fat man. Away from the cheer and bright happy sunshine these people preach. The Holidays are for conformists. Holidays; Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanza, even the fucking Winter Solstice, are all fucking retarded.

The lampposts are riddled with combinations of egg from asshole Ken wannabes trying to be cool and egging shit, and holiday decorations from overzealous home owners in the area. How could Nickalus bare to live on such a conformist cookie cutter street? How could he manage to walk by all of this conformist bullshit every day? Nickalus's mother has decorated the entire fucking yard with a cardboard re-enactment of Jesus's birth and every other possible biblical bullshit she could possibly fit. The entire house is covered in red Christmas lights, the bloody red glow coloring the snow and the biblical scene, the only saving grace.

They're singing in his living room, well, he's not, but his cousins are, and his mom and her boyfriend. I can see him from the window, writing in his notebook. I should head home… but I knock anyway, shifting uncomfortably. Thankfully he answers instead of his mom. He gives me this beautiful, curious look, only the barest hint of emotion in those dead brown eyes. He closes the door behind him, standing very close to me.

Our breaths rise like souls into the air around us, like cigarette smoke. "Merry Christmas." I hand him the small brown package. I hadn't wrapped it, because that would be fucking conformist, and goddamn it I'm not blushing. He takes it delicately in his hands, those large, writer's hands. I look away, stuffing my hands into my jeans and wishing I had a coat. I must look half frozen; I left the house early this morning in just my black button up and black jeans.

I look up at him when he presses those thin, bony, beautiful fingers to my pockmarked face. He kisses me. His lips are dry and chapped and his fingers briefly toy with my hair before he pulls away, those beautiful dead eyes staring straight into mine.

"Happy Hanukkah, Asher." And he kisses me again, and he tastes like the bitter cold, apple rum and cigarettes. In the distance I hear carolers singing their fucking hymns, and happy couples cuddle in the windows nearby, with a warm fire with eggnog and fucking cookies like all the movies, and children whine and plead for their presents now. But here, and now, in my little dead corner of the world, I have Nickalus, his hands on my waist, his lips on mine, those eyes focused on me, and snow freezing us half to death. The red lights cast us in a bloody light, glinting off his earring and my hair, the snow undisturbed and the wind howling and plucking at our clothes, the sky pitch black above us.

And it's beautiful.


End file.
